Perfect

(Reposting to remind me. And you.)

Today is perfect. As perfect as it can be. There will be no attempts to change the past. To hold regrets about yesterday and what could have been is futile. Today is the only today I have. And it is perfect.

I am perfect in this day. There is not another day like this one waiting for me in the cubby-hole of the future. Today is the only one I'm going to get, and I will be perfect in this day, for this day.

Tomorrow I will be a different person. A little older. A little stiffer. A little wiser. A little changed. But today I am perfectly me. Today, I cannot be more than I am right now. And what I am today is perfect.

It is a good day to be me.

It is good that I am me today.

And today I will make the most of this perfect day, for that is how I can be the perfect me. I will find the joy in each moment, I will appreciate the weather, I will look at the perfect people who call me "Friend", who call me "Lover", who call me "Mother". Together, we will be perfect in this perfect day.

Our perfection is accomplished when night draws a curtain on this perfect day, and this today melts into a memory called yesterday that we have no hold on. And at that very moment, the tomorrow that we could not control today, solidifies into the today that we are given. And what a perfect today it will be! We will live in this today as best we can, and we will be perfect in it.

I can only be the me I am now, in this unique space called today. I will not get a chance to repeat this day again. The trials and decisions I face today can only be dealt with by the person I am today. If I were the me I will be tomorrow, I may not learn from my trials, I may not appreciate a smile, a word or a gesture. I am perfect today to deal with today. It would not be better for me to deal with today tomorrow. This perfect day has called for this perfect me.

I cannot long for the me I was 10 years ago, that carefree, organised soul - that dear young woman of yesteryear would never be able to manage this perfect day. She could never face this perfect day with its perfect trials and challenges. She was perfect for her perfect yesterday. And I dare not long for the me that I will be in 10 years time - that perfect woman would have no care for this perfect day - her world would be so much bigger than this perfect little day. This perfect day would be a trifling splatter on her speeding windscreen. That amazing woman is perfect for her perfect tomorrow.

No. I must not. I cannot. I dare not look back or look forward. This perfect day has only me to tend to it. This me. This one here. This perfect me.

(Manic maybe?)

Stormy waters

I see you flailing in the waves.

I can taste your salty fear.

The sky is brooding and heavy with elephantine clouds.

There are yet many more raindrops which will fall and fill these heaving waters.

I hear the splashing and the thrashing. The water fills my ears and my mouth.

I want to reach for you. I want to help you.

We rise and fall on the neverending waves.

Please, don't reach for me.

I am not driftwood.

I fear we shall both drown.

Testing me

Yesterday morning I was woken to the sound of a ceramic plate smashing on the floor in the kitchen. Needles to say, I flew out of bed, gripping the passage walls to steer me in the direction of the kitchen, and arrived there, all bedrugged and sleepy, to find my darling daughters in the throes of making breakfast in bed for their sleeping parents.

The shattered plate lay in shards and two pairs of bare feet tiptoed around the edges of the splinters.

I was about to warn the owners of those naked feet about the dangers of glass shards when my eyes fell on something else. My youngest daughter was about to remove hot toast from the toaster using a pair of metal braai-tongs.

"AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!"

is what I screamed in my head.

"SSSSSSTOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!!!!"

is what my mouth screamed.

Everyone burst into tears, thankfully unelectrocuted.

So I guess that makes it a good day then?

My terrible confession.

It's safe to say that birthday parties have been a big deal in our house. The reason for this is not very clear. I have a couple of old photos in an album of simple parties thrown for me as a child. Not many, but the few that are there have captivated my memory and my imagination. They are some of my favourite childhood pics. I guess that by throwing super parties for my girls, I hoped to leave them with memories (amply recorded on film) which are happy and satisfying.

My girls are 6 and 7. As far as birthday parties go, that's 13 ticked off. We've had, in chronological order, the following birthday parties:

* Musical (1)

* Bubbles (2)

* Pretty in pink (1)

* Fairies in the garden (3)

* Butterflies (2)

* Mary Poppins (4)

* Princesses (3)

* Mermaids (5)

* Ballet (4)

* Pet party (6)

* Teddy bears (5)

* Arty Party (7)

* Jungle fun (6)

All these parties (except the first, and least memorable) were self-planned, home-hosted, DIY events. A LOT of time and effort has gone into each one. And a LOT of money. To justify the expense, I must just add that I have always been very grateful for the fact that one daughter celebrates in July and the other in December. This has given me ample time to plan, create, spend etc from one celebration to the next, thereby never really feeling the pinch of the extra effort and money that has gone into each event. It is quite true to note that most of these parties were 90% ready-to-roll a whole month before the event actually took place.

So back to today. I never really know how much I have spent on a party (as it is over several months, and I usually include items in with my groceries), but I estimate that overall costs have been well over a thousand rand. Which, I understand, is about average for a party these days. Give or take a couple of hundred rands.

Which brings me to my terrible confession...

In July we tucked the youngest's sixth birthday party to bed and, as is normal, discussions for the eldest's next party ensued. The party themes being discussed in great depth ranged from Dolphins to Hospitals. Everyone's creative juices were flowing. Everyone except for me. My creative juices were rancid and drying uppish. I was experiencing a creative juices drought.

The thought of arranging another party has, for the first time in my life, loomed before me like a cold monolithic mountain, daring my to ascend. And quite frankly, for the first time ever, I do not want to plan a party for my dear daughter. I do not wish to take on the yolk of party planner, even if it is for my sunshine child. No thanks. I'm just not in the mood.

So here's the bad part: to weasel out of my party-planning responsibilities, I resorted to bribery. I made an offer I knew my sweet child could not refuse. I turned to the old "Money or the Box" ploy. Five hundred rand versus a full blown party. Money to spend on whatsoever she should choose, versus the time and effort and love of a carefully planned celebratory event.

She considered her alternatives over a couple of days, switching from one option to the other. Eventually, she chose the money. She let me off the hook.

I bought her out.

BAD MOMMY! I know.

Of course we will still celebrate her birthday, but there will not be a party for her this year.

Feels kind of strange.

Feels good. Feels bad.

Finding the Right Costume

Tonight I attended a lecture at school about preparing your children for the future. While being eye-opening, and all, it left me feeling a little out of sorts.

To equip your child for the future, the speaker urged that an important characteristic your child needs to develop and have nurtured is the sense of knowing themselves. Your child needs to know themself.

Hmm.

Know thyself.

Heck! I don't even know myself! How can I encourage my little people to know themselves?

I am still trying to find out what this body is capable of (now that it's starting to show signs of wear and tear). I don't think I've ever gotten proper mileage out of it.

And this mind? Well, it has yet to discover its passion - the thing it craves more than anything else in the world.

I have not found my forte, my pre-occupation. I still feel like the kid in high school who has to make a career choice when actually, the greatest concern for her at that moment is trying to figure out how to clasp her bra behind her back without dislocating her shoulder. That's me. I'm still coming to terms with this body. This life. This planet. And I'm expected to know myself!?!?!?

I have tried on various robes, and none of them have fit me comfortably. I have dabbled in an assortment of occupations and yet have not found my niche. My happy place. I so badly want to find my purpose. My fulfillment. My craze.

You get these people (just as an example) who are just mad about what they do. They love, love, love their jobs. I've never really experienced that.

Currently my preoccupation is with my children. I just want to be a good mommy. And I want to raise happy, well-adjusted, socially-acceptable, valuable, confident adults. That's my goal.

But the truth is that a part of me wriggles, and sits uncomfortably, trying desperately to be patient; to wait her turn. There's a yearning within me to discover the little piece that would make everything make sense. I wish to fulfill a potential that I believe I have, but have not yet unlocked. I wish to really know myself. If I could know myself, I could be so useful to my children and my dear husband, helping them to attain their potentials too.

In my endeavors to "find myself", I have tried on various outfits, and none of them have fit me perfectly; not without pulling across my enormous boobs, or riding up at the back. I have put on the smock of the artist - it belonged to someone else. I have tried on the shoes of the dancer and carried the satchel of the student. The athlete's trainers left me with a twisted ankle. I have worn the spectacles of the educator, and pricked my fingers with the pins of the seamstress. I tried on the uniform of the nurse and carried the scales of the midwife. I put on the frown of the small business owner, and it gave me a headache. The agriculturist's wellington boots are resting on the doormat. I have tapped on the keyboard of the web-designer as well as at the keyboard of the pianist. I have worn the apron of the housewife and driven the station wagon of the mother. I have doodled with the pens of the writer and blinded myself with the photographer's flash. I have followed the books of the church (which were heavy), and I sang the mantra of the yogis (which lifted my spirits greatly). And in all of this, the thing, the one thing that would define me, escapes me.

Is it too late to go for career counselling?

The way things are

I suffer(ed) from moderate clinical depression for several years. Recently I've been well. Good. Happy. Content. I'm aware of my manxome foe (thank you very much, CS Lewis), and I know that he follows me wherever I go (there's a nursery rhyme in there, I can tell). Most days I wake up and nod my head to the beast that stalks me. He leaves me alone if I acknowledge his presence.

And so far, I have been free of the great sadness that has been a long-time companion. I have felt, on more days than not, content. And on that full stop rests my everything.

Seems like a bit of mental instability can do an awful lot for one's creative self. When I was depressed I could write. I could play piano. I could paint. I could draw. I could sew and create and design.

But my creativity has dwindled since my depression became manageable. I have had little inspiration. I stopped blogging for a long time. When I sit down with a canvas before me, I find myself staring. And staring. And the magic just never comes.

I open up my blog post, and I have nothing to say.

My happiness is frustrating, as odd as that sounds. I feel I am unable to tap the well within me. The one that holds the enchantment of my very essence. The one that can unlock me.

If you're interested in some of the things I've spent time on, check out my special blog.

Sanctuary

Please turn off your cell phones. Therapy is now in progress.

Sanctuary is such a big deal for me. A place of safety. A place to rest. Protection. Peace. Serenity.

Everyday I want to put "Sanctuary" as my status on Facebook. Why? Because I want it so much. I so badly want to know that I am safe. That nothing can harm me. That I do not need to fear. That I needn't worry about tomorrow. Guaranteed. I feel as though I have ached for sanctuary my whole life. The fear of losing a home, of not knowing if there will be another meal. The desperate isolation of rejection. Facing such unbearable loneliness and insecurity as a child was a nightmare. All I wanted was to be held in loving arms and rocked to sleep; warm and safe.

All I wanted was sanctuary.

And if I want "sanctuary" so badly, surely I should do all in my power to provide it to my children too?

The evolved world is a rotten place. And somehow life continues despite (or maybe because of) the compost. When I think about the challenges and obstacles that lie in wait for my kids, I shudder. There is so much that they must face and overcome. There are so many stresses and problems and nasties and nightmares that I cannot protect them from. What about their sanctuary? Where will they find asylum?

The answer, of course, lies with me. Their haven is here. With me. It is my duty as their mother and guardian to provide them with safe space. Space to be themselves. Space to fail. Without pressure. Space to mess up. Space to let go. Space to make a mistake and know that it's alright and that there will be another chance to try again.

If I put pressure on my children to excel, expected them always to be on their very best behaviour, ran such a tight ship that any misdemeanor got them thrown overboard, there would be no sanctuary for them. No place to unwind. Then the world really would be an incredibly unfriendly place for them. I cannot let that be.

This woman here, pledges allegiance to her offspring. She swears to offer them a place of safety, an assured oasis, a calm in the storm, wherever we may find ourselves in this great big scary world. (Sounds slightly reminiscent of our marriage vows. Hmm.) She aims to refrain from criticizing, she will not manipulate or coerce. My children MUST know that I will always provide them with a shelter against the gnashing, grabbing, gurgling gargoyles that pull down the unsuspecting.

This sanctuary is open. Come home my little chickens.

Girls, girls, girls

When I was a little girl, all I ever wanted was to have girl-dolls. There were times that my mother tried to coax me across the gender divide. She tried to persuade me that boy babies could be ok too. After all, she herself had given birth to three strapping young lads before I arrived, and she had initially found the prospect of raising a daughter somewhat daunting.

It was, in fact, during my baby-doll infatuation phase that the anatomically correct baby dolls became the "in-thing". My mother tried to persuade me that the little boy dolls with their tiny little penises were so much more interesting than the little girl baby-dolls that had a dent in the plastic between their legs.

I didn't take the bait. All I wanted was my girls. Girls. Girls. Girls.

My heart was so set on having girl babies, that at the tender age of 5, I made a point of praying twice a day, beseeching my god to give me girl babies. Surrounded by my three older brothers, I felt outnumbered. I needed to increase the girl power and reduce the loneliness.

You might be interested to learn exactly what I was praying for:

"Hello, God," I would begin, kneeling next to the side of my bed on little grazed knees. Kneeling seemed the right thing to do. It somehow seemed to make my supplication that much more sincere. "Please give me a little girl. I really, really want, er, need a little girl, who is mine-all-mine." At this point I would open my eyes and furtively check on my proximity to the darkness under the bed - my god needed to know how desperate I was considering how close I was to the bogeys and ghoulies living in that thick blackness. I would shuffle on my knees and peek over my shoulder to make sure that my bedroom door was open - I would need an unobstructed exit if a scaley hand were to make its appearance from under my night frill. "Really, God. Please, please, please can I have a little girl that is mine all mine. I would really like a little girl tomorrow please. One that I will look after and keep with me. She can be very little, I don't mind. I'll keep her in my pocket and feed her scraps from my plate. I promise I will look after her very well."

The fear of the lurking predator under my bed would always get the better of me. I would persuade myself that my god could hear my request just as well from under my bedcovers as he could from the rough cold carpet. So I would leap, in one swift fluid motion, from the floor onto my bed. Without interrupting my prayer ("Please, please, please, please") I would dive under my sheets and tuck them in tightly all around me - an impenetrable shield against the forces of evil who schemed world domination under my mattress.

The prayer would continue: "Please, asseblief, please, please, puhleeeeeeze. Oh dear God, dear wonderful, amazing, able to do absolutely anything God, please can I have a little little girl. And please can she be able to speak. English. So that she can speak to me. And I also promise, God, that I will keep her a secret. You don't have to even tell my mom to check on her. I'll look after her very well on my own."

Once in a while, I would think it might be a good idea to let my god know that I had total confidence in his abilities to accomplish the impossible. As I lay tightly tangled in my linen, eyes pinched shut hunds clenched tightly together across my chest, I would declare, "I know you can do it. I believe. I believe. I believe. Please, please, please."

And as the heaviness of sleep began to weigh my little body down, I would promise myself that I would say "please" as much as I could while I was still awake.

And so I prayed. Every day. For more than a year. And as I grew up, I realised how foolish my request had been. Preposterous, in fact. So I moved on.

But one day, many many years later, I woke up and discovered, to my delight, that I actually did have a very little girl who was mine-all-mine. A little girl that I could take with me, and look after and feed and talk to. And to my surprise, there was a second little girl for me to look after and care for, and I realised that I must have prayed really, really hard. The girls were everything I had ever longed for.

The Chemistry of Farting

Ok - so it is as it is. We all have little bugs in our colons producing quantities of gas every day that have to come out. And at some stage, we've all released the devil's breath in the bath. Underwater like. For a change.

While enjoying that extended moment of no toxic fumes, when the gasses have been released, but the bubbles have not yet made their way to the surface of the water - the calm before the storm - have you ever stopped to think about the chemistry of what is happening?

Each potent little bubble must contain a bunch of sulphur dioxide molecules, right? You can't deny that rotten egg whiff! And here you are, obliviously mingling sulphur and H2O. One plus one, people! I'm talking about sulphuric acid. And you are in that potion, butt nekkid!

I'm just saying.

Mystery of the Missing Menses

In a nutshell, my reproductive history can be likened to a piece of string:

* Tied the knot

* Learnt the ropes (twice)

* Got horribly tangled up

* Snipped the strings (courtesy of Mr Me)

If you follow, you'll understand that I am not a candidate for contraception. Be that as it may, I have been treating PCOS with the pill for about 2 years. Three months ago, I changed pills to one with a lower dose hormone as there is a history of breast cancer in my family, and lower estrogen intake is recommended in that regard.

My first cycle on the new pill was quite exciting. The PMS that arrived two days before my period was sent to test my resolve. More accurately, it was sent to test how much resolve I had NOT to actually act on the impulse to gouge out my husband's eyeballs with a rusty teaspoon, hammer chillies into his nostrils or shove a pineapple into an intimate orifice of his. (I was mulling these things over a salad, apparently). Apart from a few demon hours were my hair caught on fire and I danced naked around a bubbling cauldron for a bit, the first cycle was uneventful.

Cycle two was earmarked with lower back pain out of the middle ages - you know the kind that the donkeys got from drawing the carts laden with dead bodies through the muddy alleys (yes, I know, too much Monty Python). But it too was less than remarkable.

And cycle three? Well. Cycle three wasn't. My week came and went. No period. Period.

So, I hear what you're saying - you're saying "Couldn't you be? Just maybe? Just a little bit?"

I say "No."

Thing is, for me to be pregnant, it would have to be by immaculate conception (why is The Immaculate Conception even called that? Was it a neat and tidy incident?). The sperm, for one, would have to be completely phenomenal. For a start, it would have to have a titanium helmet with an all-purpose drill bit attached to the top to get out of his sealed off nursery. Then he'd have to be able to bungy jump the vast chasm of missing vas deferens to enter a viable propulsion chamber. After ejaculation, that mighty sperm amongst sperm would need to be smeared with anti-cervical plug lubricant as well as be equipped with elusive ovum detecting abilities. In fact, the latter would have to be so good that that little Wonder Sperm would need to find a non-existant egg to fertilise. Furthermore, that dedicated bit of flagellated DNA would need to defy the laws of nature that require suitable womb-lining for implantation, and bury its sweet prize in rock hard, dry endometrium.

All of this would, of course, be a bit like an inmate escaping Alcatraz with only a teaspoon and a packet of Cup-A-Soup, gate-crashing a party at Hugh Heffner's place, only to find out that the guests have already gone, and that all they left behind was a blow-up doll which our stalwart escapee persuades to take him home home to meet her parents, sleep with him and make him a full English breakfast the next morning. Unlikely.

So really, if I were pregnant after all that, the child I carried would have to be named Jesus (gender irrelevant) out of some reverence but mostly surprise. We would probably use the handy abbreviation: OMG! when labeling lunch-boxes and sports clobber (exclamation mark optional).

PS. I did a home pregnancy test at about 2pm this afternoon - just to make sure that the second coming was not going to happen on my watch. Results were negative, as I had suspected. But just to be on the safe side I have gone back to check it every hour or so hence.

PPS. While part of me thinks that being the mother of God could have some awesome kick-backs, the other part of me is grateful for the one line apparent in that test kit window.

PPPS. Note to self: Phone doctor at earliest convenience to find out what in heaven's name is going on with my girl bits.

The Mouths of Babes

As far as religion and spiritual matters go, I'm not descriptive. I don't enforce a specific spiritual code in my home. I grew up in a conservative baptist home where my entire family was very involved in the church. Sunday school, church choir, music department, youth camps, Sunday sermon tech, prayer meetings, woman's group, bible study, outreach and missions - we were involved in it all.

But then something happened (which is an entirely separate story on its own, and one which I will dissect carefully for you - but not today), and now I am unconnected to "The Church". When it was just me, this wasn't really a problem, but with the arrival of the girls I had to stop and ask myself quite seriously, "What about them?"

I had many arguments with myself about my spiritual obligations towards my offspring - the passing on of morals and biblical values; my responsibility of educating them re: the forces of good and evil etc. Most of these arguments are still incomplete.

As things stand, my children rarely go to Sunday school. I read them bible stories when they ask for them, or because I hear them discussing key characters incorrectly placed and I feel guilty that they don't know the stories by rote like I did when I was their age. I get embarrassed when they talk about how Moses was swallowed by the whale, or how Joseph and Eve were in the garden of Eden together (these muddled stories are most often sparked by discussions at school). We say grace before meals on occasion (for me it's less of a prayer and more of an observance of gratitude).

While some Christian input is offered by their paternal grandparents, at this stage, most of my children's biblical education happens at school.

Today was Ascension Day, and the children took part in crafts and stories related to the event at school.

On the way home from school, the car conversation was based on Ascension Day. T-bird had made a paper-cup heaven (coloured blue and stuck about with cotton wool clouds) with a paper Jesus hanging on a string which could be pulled up inside the upside-down cup to represent his ascent into Heaven. She was demonstrating her creation to her sister.

"Look! Jesus is going to Heaven," she said as she pulled the string through the hole punched in the bottom of the cup making Jesus disappear into the waxy chalice.

"I can still see his feet," Air-Bear pointed out matter-of-factly.

"He doesn't fit in my heaven so well," explained her sister. "So he can just come out again." And she tugged on Jesus' paper feet to draw him back into plain view.

"Do you know what Ascension Day is?" I asked the girls as I turned into our street.

Air-Bear leapt at the opportunity to share her knowledge. This is what she said: "Jesus died and came alive again at Easter. Then he stayed for about a month and then it was Ascension Day. On that day he went to Heaven to help God make beds for everyone."

Yes! Hello! I'll go for a heaven where there's a bed made for me - I think I could justify some celestial sleep.

Pearls of Widom

Yesterday was a really strange day for me.

While it had a notable start (sex in the morning really can't be scoffed at), the day sort of petered out from there. One would think that starting the day with the horizontal mambo would mean only exceptional things for the hours ahead. But strangely, it didn't. It was as though there was not going to be anything else noteworthy for the rest of the day, so the day kind of crumbled in on itself.

And my mood followed suite. By evening, I felt like I had had my life force drained out of me. There was no more oomph. No fresh air. Just heaviness. And tiredness. And a real absence of inspiration.

To make matters worse, I had stumbled upon some overly cheerful optimist's column that afternoon which lauded finding beauty in every day. Cherishing every breath. Looking for something miraculous during your waking hours. Of course I wanted to vomit, but that would have meant that I'd have to clean up, so to save myself the trouble, I didn't. But I wanted to.

By the time 9pm rolled along, I was ready to sign off. Finito. This chick was emotionally bankrupt. So I made my apologies and fell into my bed, where, just by the way, I felt happier than I had ALL day long (except that first part, where we were riding the five legged pony, but it had been so long ago, that it didn't really count anymore).

So, new day. And when I opened my eyes, I wondered how it would be any different to its predecessor. Well, for a start, I did not rock the casbah. Disappointing.

"Hmmph," I thought to myself, "Beauty in every day, huh? I still have to make the sarmies that I didn't do last night." I pulled myself up and started the day.

By the time the school run was complete, I found myself at home tending to some important matters - the things that I didn't look at when they arrived, and while they had been conveniently forgotten about, the rascals had been getting up to all kinds of antics of their own and had multiplied copiously. I had to tend to many of them this morning because little baby matters were starting to pop up between the important matters - and that's just messy.

One of the important matters required me to get my hands dirty in the garden. I stripped off the oh-so-impressive school-visiting attire and donned the more appropriate garden-tramp uniform with socks-in-crocs. I looked fabulous! Off I went.

An hour later I trudged mud through the house (which I had to clean up - oh joy! beauty in top-soil! and other such jubilant crap).

As I prepared to revive the school-visiting goddess look I had mustered up before, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My mud-bedecked dirt-bus image reflected in the mirror. And I realised the moment of beauty. I hadn't taken off my pearls when I'd changed earlier. And there I was: filthy, stinky, and wearing pearls. It was one of those life-defining moments that you try and share with people but know that no-one could possibly get it because they weren't there at the time. Something like what I'm doing right now.

But it mattered to me.

And I think that I will always garden in my pearls from now on.

Fortune favours the Ordinary

Yesterday I watched the nimble fingers of a friend as she created a culinary masterpiece. She set about it so non-chalantly and effectively. As she worked we chatted. She didn't skip a beat. Never loosing the conversation thread and never missing a drop - she was inspiring.

As we chatted, I wondered about her life, about the challenges she faces every day. About her trials and her obstacles. The thought occurred to me to dig deeper than discussing diapers and light fittings.

"Are you happy?" I asked. She thought I was referring to her craft and how it was all coming together. After listening to her assess the condition of her creation, listing its various attributes, I interjected.

"No," I said. " I mean about your life - are you happy with your life?"

She thought for a moment. " I guess so. Are you?"

I wasn't really expecting her to throw it back at me, but I considered the implications for a while.

Happiness is a weather phenomenon for me. Somedays are sunny, some are partly cloudy with a chance of thundershowers. So Happiness is not a label I will stitch onto my existence. No. I have been too sad. Too worried. Too stretched. Too tired.

As I considered the question, the word that kept popping up in my mind was Lucky. I am lucky. I am so lucky to share my life with the remarkable people I do. My husband. My girls. My friends. I am lucky to live in the most beautiful city in the world. I love my home. I am lucky to have a space to decorate and fill and change and use. I am lucky to have the chance to focus my attentions on the things that are so vitally important to me. I am lucky to have my health. To have the perspective that is holding my sanity on a steady path. I am lucky to know what it feels like to be lifted from the darkness. I am lucky to have a story.

It's a good thing for me to feel like this. It's been a very long time since I could hold my head up and and smile. It's good to feel lucky. And while the happy feelings come and go with the wind, under it all I know that I am lucky.

Confessions From a Parking Lot

Let me start by saying that I'm not proud of this story. Really.

This is what happened: I had been getting things at Willowbridge. I had my card swiped at Woolies for the discounted 90 minutes free parking. Only, unbeknownst to me, I had been there a tad more than that, but didn't bother to check on my way out. I ASSUMED that I was all clear to go.

Silly me.

So there I was, pulling up to one of the two exit booms, confidently slipping my parking card into the little boom-controlling machine. And there the little boom-controlling machine was, confidently regurgitating it back at me like a baby with bad reflux.

A concerned Boom Official approached my window and asked if I had paid my card. "Er, I swiped it at Woolies????" I made sure he heard all the question marks. The Boom Official examined me briefly, decided I was harmless and mostly below average intelligence, and offered to run to the ticket machine located in the center to pay the ticket for me. Gratefully I handed him my ticket and a ten rand note, pulled up my hand brake and switched my hazard lights on - politely indicating to any departing shoppers that I had a minor problem and that they shouldn't try to pass through the boom I was blocking.

Lady in car number 1 (lets call her Exhibit A) pulls up behind me. And waits. It's apparent that she didn't see my hazards flashing. I try to catch her eye in my rear view mirror, indicating my obvious hiatus in exiting the parking lock. It takes her some time to notice that I'm not going anywhere. Eventually we lock eyes; me staring apologetically into my rear view mirror, she glaring angrily at me. With much exaggeration, she puts her car into reverse, never breaking eye contact with me and mouthing her dissatisfaction at this hinderance to her departure. She reverses. Not seeing the car that had, in the meantime, pulled up behind her (let's call that Exhibit B).

I, of course, watching Exhibit A in my rear-view mirror, had seen Exhibit B pull up behind her. I had also watched aghast as Exhibit A made ready to reverse. I had yelled "Stop Lady!" before she actually started moving, but I think she thought I was swearing back at her.

I watched helplessly as Exhibit A rammed her car into Exhibit B.

Thankfully, at this point, the Boom Official returned with my freshly paid card and was very quick in getting it active in opening the boom. As I pulled away, I looked once more in my rear-view mirror only to see Exhibit A impatiently pulling up to the second boom-controlling machine and placing her card into the awaiting slot. She had either not realised what she had just done, or was anxious to get away.

Exhibit B was exactly where we had left him only moments before. Well, not exactly. Probably about 30 cm back from where we had left him, but he looked just the same: eyes wide open, lower jaw resting on his accelerator pedal.

Now I know it wasn't all my fault, entirely, this little parking lot fender-bender. But I can't help but feel a smidgen guilty about it all. Like I should have stopped, or checked my ticket before leaving, or something.

If guilt were shoes, I'd say this is equivalent to a pair of Hi-Tecs.

The Death of the Easter Bunny and Other Misadventures in PMS

Easter Morning. Too early for sane people to have risen. An urgent little voice rouses me from my sleep. "Mommy," it demands. "You must wake up! It's Easter. And I looked outside. And the Easter Bunny HASN'T been! Is the Easter bunny even real?"

"It's too early for the Easter Bunny to have been. Go back to bed." I mumble.

Of course she doesn't. She goes to wake her sister and the two of them busy themselves with the PS2.

I roll over in bed. The man sleeping next to me has not flinched. He is immune to the early morning pleads of our offspring. I kick him in the shin.

"Here's the plan," I instruct the zombie lying before me. "We'll put all the eggs in one basket - literally. I'll get the breakfast things going and you put the choccies in a nice gift bag, take them around to the front door, ring the doorbell and the girls can find them there."

We are in agreement. The next few minutes are a jumble of pyjamas, clothing, shoes, gift bags, eggs, tissue paper and coffee. He disappears discreetly out the back door and I start a load of washing.

The doorbell rings. Unfortunately, I'm up to my elbows in er, cornflakes. I yell for the girls to get the door as my darling husband waltzes in the back door - a bead of perspiration clinging to his left eyebrow.

The girls dash to the door, struggle with the keys, open it and Lo, and behold! A beautiful gift bag lies abandoned on our doorstep. Oh the excitement! The sheer thrill of finding a treasure like this. Hastily they bring it in, giggling and chatting about what it could be and who it could be from.

Peering over their shoulders, the man of the house declares, "It's from the Easter Bunny, of course!"

"No, it isn't!" is not the response we were waiting for, but it is the one we got. The eldest child has discovered a card attached to the bag and proceeds to read it with great care: "Dear Air-Bear. Happy Birthday! From Hannah"

Silence erupts. And then the moment dissolves into utter confusion.

T-bird says, "Air-Bear, it's for you. From Hannah."

Air-Bear says, "But it's not my birthday."

Father says, "No! It's from the Easter bunny." And snatches the evil card away.

I shoot daggers at the man who, up until that point had played his role flawlessly. He gestures over their heads, "What?!?!?"

I gesture, "You die today."

I mean REALLY!!! Standing on the brink of the beauty which is childhood fantasy and the looming, neverending tide of reality and you go and do an irresponsible thing like that! Just throw it all away, why don't you! And while you're at it tell them the tooth fairy didn't react well to the Target insecticide spray and that Santa Claus died about 50 million years ago. Thank you very much, darling husband of mine!

Just Lucky, I guess

Oprah captured the idea best when she coined the phrase: "An Attitude of Grattitude".

I don't mean to sound condescending or pompous or supercilious, but I feel at moments (like this one right here) that I lead a charmed life. Sure, I don't have loads of material possessions and I'm still really behind as far as the latest and greatest technological developments go, but I genuinely feel that there is so much good in my life. So much to be grateful for. So many multi-faceted bits of magic that capture the sunlight and reflect splashes of light and love around me every day.

I know that I am lucky. I am privileged. I am fortunate.

Not in the "born-with-a-silver-spoon-in-her-mouth" kind of way. No. I am advantaged in a way that has nothing to do with class, status, career, wealth or accumulation.

The core of my great fortune rests in my little family.

My wonderful, caring, generous husband is a man who strives to protect his integrity in the face of the brutal cut-throat corporate world he is immersed in. And my two miraculous daughters flank their father; one a ray of sunshine, one an echo of moonlight. Two fantastic children who are amazing in their own right - I cannot fully comprehend how all three of these precious beings ended up in my care. I am just that fortunate.

My husband and I have just celebrated our eleventh anniversary. We are in a good place. We are friends. We talk. We embrace one another. We wait up for one another. We make each other tea. We sit quietly together - not saying anything - just being together. We laugh together. We love together. He is my king. He gets me. And I believe in him. It works for us.

My firstborn is my sunbeam. A poised and purposeful dancer. Graceful and determined. She is warm and strong. She is a bright and tenacious soul. Head-strong. Persistent. A leader. We do not always see eye-to-eye, and at times I am blinded by her brilliance, her insistence, her force. But she shines for me and I live for her. While I am warmed by her radiance, I fumble as I try to encourage her to harness the great power she possesses. Everyday my sun shines on me and I on her. We hold. We let go. We dance a complicated waltz. And while she has so much to learn about her dazzling character, I marvel at how lucky I am to witness her solar awakening.

My moonbeam child followed her sister very rapidly from the outer edges of the universe. She is a soulful, enlightened being. A thinker. A seeker. The holder of the secrets of the cosmos. An iridescent entity. My delicate moonlight sylph has an understanding of the world and what is beyond the world that far outreaches her few delicate years. She sees things. She understands things. She makes sense of things. She questions and she contemplates. And all the while her gentle spirit reaches out to those around her - a cooling hand, a soft embrace. She is beautiful empathy. The bringer of peace.

So privileged am I to have the influence of these three people in my life. I am wealthy beyond measure.

I have experienced pain. I have experienced sorrow. I have waded through misfortune. I juggle stress. I worry about money. I become annoyed. I can yell. I wish for more, for better. I doubt. I cry. I fear what the future may hold. I am just an ordinary person living an ordinary life. But I choose to see the magic in the good cards I have been dealt. And that makes all the difference.

In the Beginning

Once upon a time there was a young mother of two little girls, wife to a madly handsome and deeply devoted man. She was a midwife, by training. And so it was that this very simple yet highly complicated female ran a marriage, a home, the school run and her own business, when all of a sudden, her life went BANG! and it all came crashing to a thundering halt.

It was at this time that the young woman began to record her feelings about her life on the blank pages of a massive cyber journal which she wrote in regularly, sending her blog posts out into deep space, seeking comfort and therapy through fallible words and awkward understandings. She passed through a great sorrow, a deep sadness that engulfed her and tried to destroy her fragile world. Somehow, this young nurse found a way through the darkness, all the while journalling her travels in a blog known as The Midwife Crisis.

As time passed, the hazy edges of her life began to sharpen, and her head cleared. She took a long detailed look at her life and realised that she was no longer a midwife nor was she in crisis. And so her aptly named blog became gradually very unapt, irrelevant. And she stopped writing.

But the no-longer-a-midwife-but-seeking-her-destiny girl's heart was full of stories. Her mind played back the memories of her life: the good things, the bad things and the things that had always made her wonder. And the girl had an aching need to record those thoughts, to add them to the vast collection of whisperings sprinting through the ether.

So she sat down and started a new blog. A one about where she was now. About her stories, her thoughts and her wishes.

This is it...